


‘...you were there.’

by Crowgirl



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Not Beta Read, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 10:14:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19851034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: Crowley can’t remember the first time he looked at Aziraphale and thoughtwant.





	‘...you were there.’

Crowley can’t remember the first time he looked at Aziraphale and thought _want._ The feeling’s been part of him for too long to unpick a real beginning. 

He can remember the first time he had looked at Aziraphale and thought _mine._

It had been in a tavern in Greece. Sometime after the death of Christ and before the first Crusade but he can’t be more exact. Aziraphale had asked him to come and listen to this “delightful” young sculptor Aziraphale had discovered -- some human bound for brilliance. 

Crowley had sat and listened patiently enough, making at least some of the right noises, he’s sure, until the lad caught Aziraphale’s hand, asking him to make a fist and then pushing the sleeve of his tunic up to his shoulder, exposing pale skin to the entire tavern as if it was nothing. 

Aziraphale had gone along with him, of course, laughing a little, obliging as ever, and the boy pressed his thumb just below Aziraphale’s palm to demonstrate some stupid thing or other, then ran his finger up along the line of muscle to the soft skin of Aziraphale’s elbow.

And Aziraphale _let_ him. 

Aziraphale sat and nodded and watched the boy’s hands and _let himself be touched._

Crowley remembered a forgotten errand in another town on the spot and never again went out in public with Aziraphale without glasses dark enough to hide his eyes. 

* * *

‘What are you thinking about?’ Aziraphale asks now, curling closer against Crowley’s side in the twilight dim of their -- _their_ \-- bedroom with the breeze bringing the sound of the waves in through the window.

‘D’you remember that Greek boy? The sculptor?’ Crowley tries to make it sound like an idle question, tracing his fingertips over the back of Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

Aziraphale hums, his breath warm against Crowley’s throat. ‘The one you tried to set on fire by the power of gaze alone?’

‘I did not,’ Crowley protests half-heartedly and Aziraphale chuckles.

‘It was quite flattering, my dear. Once I realised, anyway. What about him?’ 

‘Oh -- nothing in particular.’ Crowley feathers his fingertips over the nape of Aziraphale’s neck, enjoying the almost catlike way Aziraphale shifts against him, pressing them close together from hip to shoulder and teases himself with the soft brush of Aziraphale’s curls.

Aziraphale hums again. ‘Do you remember that barmaid -- at the place we used to go to around the corner from the Rose.’

Crowley shakes his head. ‘I remember your Willyboy getting shitfaced on sack and having to lug him home.’ 

‘And very kind of you it was, too.’ Aziraphale pats his shoulder.

‘I didn’t really have any option,’ Crowley says, sure Aziraphale is quite aware of the faint tingle it still sends down Crowley’s spine to be called _kind._ ‘It was either that or both of you were going to end up going out with the tide.’ 

‘True. Well. If not her, then what about that young man at Saint Cloud? Before everything went sour, I mean.’

Crowley rolls his eyes at the dim ceiling. ‘Angel. You’re going to have to be more specific than that. There were approximately seven dozen ‘young men’ there and some of them were even young.’ 

‘And most of them were trying to grab your ass. I can see how you’d get confused.’

Crowley jolts but Aziraphale refuses to budge from his shoulder and after a minute, Crowley remembers how to relax. Aziraphale pats his chest. ‘Don’t play innocent, dear. You know there were.’

‘I -- well, I --’ Crowley stammers and Aziraphale raises his head enough to look Crowley in the eye.

‘I’m not _judging_ you. I just wanted to point out that -- well. I’m not _blind,_ you know.’

‘You were there,’ Crowley blurts out, fixing his gaze back on the ceiling.

Aziraphale goes still, then shifts, propping himself up on one elbow, one hand flat on Crowley’s sternum. ‘What?’

Crowley swallows. ‘I don’t remember them because -- you were there.’

Aziraphale looks at him for a long moment, gaze no less sharp for the dimness of the room and Crowley swallows again and hopes he’s not blushing as hot as he feels he is. 

Aziraphale drums his fingers thoughtfully on Crowley’s breastbone for a minute, then says, ‘You didn’t notice _any_ of them. Not _one_ of the humans who practically _threw_ themselves on you.’

Crowley shakes his head, hair rasping against the fine cotton of the pillowcase. ‘Not if you were there. Not a chance. Couldn’t. Not that good at thinking about two things at once.’ 

Aziraphale is silent for a long minute, then smiles and traces a fingertip down the placket of Crowley’s shirt; the buttons spring open obligingly and Aziraphale smoothes his hand over bare skin. Crowley shudders, gripping convulsively at Aziraphale’s shoulder with one hand and the duvet with the other. ‘Oh, I think you’re quite good at thinking about two things at once.’


End file.
